The resounding thud set off a stream of panicked visitors huffing and puffing to my room: my mother looking very concerned; my neighbours too – wasn’t that concern on their faces, or was that anticipation of something sensational, a broken limb, for instance? They all found me sprawled on my back with an open book seemingly plastered on my face, but without any serious damage.
Some were relieved; some disappointed. Some family members didn’t even bother to check, but that’s a story for another time. The culprit for all the cacophony: the book that was resting on my face. Detractors will shake their heads and focus their gaze up on the antique chair, which had now multiplied into many antique pieces. At them, I cock a snook. I have read many books sitting in the very chair, but I have always come out of the book reading exercises, safe and normal, having always been mindful not to push back the back-rest beyond a certain....
